The Promise Read online

Elena hesitated. “That priest—he still lives among the mountain folk, still sometimes interferes with a birth. Has it ever happened in Ronzal?”

  Thérèse squeezed her hand. “He knows better than to stray too far from the baron. He’s got no other ally, after all. From time to time we hear talk that he creeps up to the high country to steal the offerings that shepherds leave out for the gods. But more often he sends a village boy to do it for him.”

  Elena felt a rush of relief. “It’s settled, then. Brother Arros awaits my answer. As soon as that’s done, I’ll come to you in Ronzal.”

  “And what is your answer for him?”

  “The one I’m bound to give.”

  15

  Summer, 1484

  Elena covered the distance from the high country back to San Juan de la Peña with great speed. She jogged steadily through forests of pine and oak, across meadows that shimmered with heat. Her lungs burned and her skin beaded with sweat under the baleful yellow eye of the sun.

  From the look of Thérèse’s belly, Elena’s services would be required in Ronzal before the next full moon. She needed to give Brother Arros her answer, wheel around, and stride back up the mountains again. A pair of crows shadowed her for a while, their black wings whispering through the air. She paid them no heed. There was no time to waste selecting a rock to fling at the shiny beak of a crow.

  Finally she arrived at the base of the soaring cliffs where the monastery lay, her hair wet with sweat and her clothes coated with dust. It was mid-afternoon and most of the monks were laboring outside. She caught sight of the familiar figure of Brother Arros in the orchards near the guesthouse. Though her throat was parched and her feet throbbed with pain, Elena rushed to his side and flung herself to her knees.

  “Brother Arros, forgive me,” she panted, wiping her brow with the back of a hand.

  He set down the basket of plums he carried. “What have you done that requires my forgiveness?”

  “The kindness of the mountain folk—it was all thanks to you.”

  To her horror, she began to cry.

  Brother Arros pulled a wine sack from around his neck. “Here.” He handed it over.

  Elena drank deeply and took several shaky breaths, gathering her composure.

  “I’ve long known I owe you my life. But I never knew how much you’ve truly done to protect me.”

  He held out a hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come now, child. You are a blessing to me. Whatever small comfort I’ve provided you pales in comparison to the wisdom you share with us. Your ointments and teas have healed more people than you know.”

  She stared at him through her tears. “Will you never find fault with me?”

  He tilted his head to one side, considering her. “No.”

  “I’ve come to give you my answer. I’ll help Lady Marguerite, though I do not want to.”

  The relief was clear on his face. “I shall write a letter for you to deliver to the baron, though you shall be happy to know he is not there. A traveler from Zaragoza who lodged in our guesthouse last night told me the baron is in that city, attending to business affairs—to the wool trade in particular.”

  “Sounds unlike a baron. Wetting swords with blood, that’s what they do.”

  “I am too busy today to get embroiled in an argument with you about the habits of noble families.”

  Elena pressed her lips together. “When will Lady Marguerite’s baby come?”

  “When autumn turns to winter and the days grow short.”

  “Thérèse de Luz’s first child comes sooner than that, and I’ve vowed to help. After I go to Ronzal and give her my aid, I’ll make my way to Castle Oto.”

  “I would not dissuade you from helping your friends.”

  “Mind you, I’ll only stay at Castle Oto long enough to see Lady Marguerite’s child into this world. I’ll not become a servant bound to her and trapped within those walls.”

  “Of course. She does not expect any more. She will be grateful for your help. You will pass the time there in peace, and then leave again when it suits you.”

  “You make the place sound all gentleness and light. Do you forget the history of that house?”

  Brother Arros sighed. “Would I truly send you into a bear’s den? You are a child of God and God will protect you.”

  “Your God cares nothing for me.” Elena put a hand on the dagger at her waist. “I’ll protect myself.”

  * * *

  After two days of rest, Elena was ready for the journey back to Ronzal.

  She waited in the shade by the guesthouse for Brother Arros to finish his morning duties. Monks streamed around her carrying rolls of flax fabric, jugs of ale, and ceramic containers of grain to a staging area near the stables. It seemed they anticipated a mule train that would carry the items south.

  Finally Brother Arros came to her. He held out a leather sack.

  “Dried cherries and walnuts for your journey.” From a pocket in his robe, he fished out a parchment scroll fastened with a red wax seal. “For the baron. And his son. They both must read my letter. Tell Lady Marguerite to make it so.”

  Elena stiffened. “But you said Ramón is at war in the south.”

  “Even so. When he returns one day, he must know the contents of this letter.”

  Carefully she placed the scroll in the satchel slung over her shoulders.

  “Brother Arros!” called a monk from the stables on the other side of the orchards. “Your counsel is needed.”

  Beyond the stables, they saw a column of dust rise across the valley. Brother Arros shaded his eyes with a hand.

  “Ah! There it is—the mule train at last.”

  “Who rides with them?”

  “Truly, I care not. All I know is they head south, as far south as travelers dare to go, where Queen Isabella’s army fights the Moors.” He gave her a distracted glance. “The saints above, there is much to do. And before I tend to any of it, I must pen another letter and pack more things to send south with those mules.”

  “I’ll be off, then.” Elena pressed Brother Arros’s hands between her own.

  “I shall not forget the favor, and nor shall Lady Marguerite.” He glanced around them and drew closer. “There is something else you must know before you leave. A secret you cannot share with anyone, not even Xabi, nor Thérèse. Do I have your promise?”

  Elena nodded.

  “Quickly, now.” He bent his head to hers, whispering in her ear.

  When he finished, she turned away, her eyes dry.

  Following the steep path to the clifftops, she turned over his words in her mind. Help-mate indeed. Accomplice was more like it. Unwilling participant in a reckless plan that would likely end in tragedy. But still, she had made her promise. And a small part of her felt vindicated. The barons of Oto were every bit as cruel as she believed.

  Her breath grew quick and shallow, her heart shuddered in her chest. Come autumn, she would find a death cap in the woods and tuck it in her satchel. For as much as she pretended otherwise, finding the courage to enter Castle Oto would require more than a dagger and a quiver of arrows. A noble house presented far greater dangers to a mountain woman like her than any beast of the wilderness.

  And whatever happened, she vowed grimly, her life would not end within those walls.

  16

  Summer, 1484

  The village of Ronzal had long been Elena’s refuge, but this night it seemed an entirely foreign place. Wolves haunted the outskirts of the village and men took turns patrolling the hillside with torches and resin-tipped arrows, dogs at their heels. Everyone else was shuttered inside their homes. The unnatural silence outside was interrupted only by the occasional howl of a wolf. Heat had scorched the mountains for days, and the air inside the cottage was thick and still.

  Elena coaxed Thérèse to stay upright, telling her stories, wiping her brow with a rag soaked in lavender water, giving her sips of wine. She had learned long ago from Maria that a first labor went better for mother
and baby if the pregnant woman kept moving. After hours of pacing and squatting, of leaning on the backs of chairs and on the stone walls of the cottage, exhaustion finally forced Thérèse into bed.

  While Thérèse rested between labor pains, Elena went to the door and peered out the small square that was cut into it at eye level. Dusk was creeping over the mountains, cooling the earth. The shimmering moon had begun its ascent into the purple sky. She imagined an invisible thread attached to its round face, pulling it slowly upward.

  A memory struck her of a birth that had occurred on a night such as this, still and hot and illuminated by a full moon, the year that Father Pizarro arrived.

  The night everything went wrong.

  * * *

  Maria had pulled her outside the Guerrer family’s cottage during a lull in the long labor. They gazed together at the sky, watching the moon begin its silent climb.

  “Look,” she said, pointing at a long band of stars that stained the night sky with a pale haze. “The pilgrims in Brother Arros’s infirmary say those stars light the way to Compostela. Some of them die on the way there, following those stars.”

  “Why do they go, then, if it’s so dangerous?” asked Elena, squinting upward. The stars did seem to be aligned in formation.

  “It’s to do with God,” replied Maria.

  “Are we going to do it?” asked Elena. She hoped not.

  Maria laughed and encircled the girl with her arms. “No, girl. We’re not like them.”

  “But I’ve seen you praying!”

  “I pray to the gods of the mountains—gods we’d best not anger. I pray to keep us safe from their rage.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Blizzards, floods, wind storms. Those things happen because people make the gods angry.”

  Elena tried to imagine what an angry god looked like. A giant red face contorted by rage floated into her mind. “I hope I never make them angry.”

  Maria hugged her tighter still. “Don’t worry, little one. Children are innocent. The gods only get angry when people do evil things.”

  “Like what?”

  The exhausted woman on the bed let out a long, wavering moan.

  Distracted, Maria turned away, her reply smothered under the sound.

  But Elena did hear one word of her mother’s answer: Murder.

  She had never heard the word before, so she had no reason to fear it. And yet, watching her mother return to the pregnant woman’s side, Elena’s chest tightened with a spasm of dread. She fought the urge to rush forward and bury her face in Maria’s skirts.

  Balling her small fists, she prayed to the gods for the first time.

  There was only one thing she asked of them: to bring Ulricca Guerrer’s baby into the world safely so that she and Maria could go home.

  * * *

  Ulricca Guerrer had been married for many years and had been pregnant at least six times. And yet the Guerrers still had no children. Several of the pregnancies ended in miscarriage, and the two babies that Ulricca gave birth to had been stillborn. This time the pregnancy seemed normal enough, but the labor had gone on too long. Ulricca lay flat on the bed, sweaty hair plastered to her face. Her eyes were closed.

  “Dip a cloth in that cool water and bring it to me,” Maria murmured to Elena.

  Maria wiped the damp cloth over Ulricca’s face, smoothing the tangled hair away from her forehead.

  “Why does it not come?” Ulricca croaked. “Why?” She grimaced, overcome by a wave of pain.

  “It will come,” Maria said confidently. She took Ulricca’s hands in hers and squeezed. “Push again. Find the strength.”

  Veins bulged on Ulricca’s neck as she bore down. A deep groan burst from her chest.

  “I see the baby’s head!” Maria cried.

  Elena crouched next to the bed, watching the baby’s dark head bulge outward. The skin around the crowning skull was stretching, stretching, stretching. Elena knew that sometimes it split open, spilling blood everywhere. But Maria rubbed ointment on it, waiting, giving the skin time to stretch.

  “Now, Ulricca,” Maria said after a few moments. “One more big push.”

  The woman took another deep breath and bore down again. The baby’s entire head emerged, and with unusual speed, the rest of its body followed. Maria stared at it in silence, and Elena rocked back on her heels.

  The baby, a boy, had only one wizened arm. That was why he slipped out so fast. His tiny legs were twisted, as if the bones curled within them. Yet he lived. He opened his round mouth and let out a tremulous mewl.

  Ulricca lay back, spent. Tears mixed with the sweat on her face. “I want to hold my baby,” she whispered.

  Quickly Maria wiped the baby clean and wrapped him in a linen cloth. “Go call for Señor Guerrer,” she whispered to Elena. “Hurry.”

  When Señor Guerrer strode up to the cottage, there was another man at his side. A priest. As he approached Elena, the polished wooden cross he wore around his neck caught the moonlight, glistening.

  The two men entered the cottage. Elena hung back just outside the door, watching them advance on the women. Her entire body thrummed with fear.

  “I’ve a child!” Señor Guerrer boomed. “Is it a boy or a girl? Father Pizarro, you must lay your hands on our baby, give it your blessing.”

  Maria put a restraining hand on his arm. “Wait!” she said sharply. “I must talk to you first. There’s something wrong with the child, his limbs—”

  “Wrong?” the priest interrupted. “What do you mean? Let us see for ourselves.”

  He strode to the bed and examined the swaddled baby. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

  Maria unwrapped the baby. At the sight of his deformed body, Ulricca began to cry. Her husband let out a shout, then covered his mouth with his hands and sank to his knees.

  Father Pizarro crossed himself. “This is the work of the devil!” he said. “It is meant to curse us. Cover it up again!” He held up his cross as if to ward off evil emanating from the tiny body.

  Ulricca turned her head away from the baby and sobbed. Her husband stared wild-eyed at his newborn son.

  The priest pointed at Maria. “You had something to do with this dragon child.”

  Maria shook her head, backing away.

  “Señor Guerrer said you are always here to attend the births.” The priest took a step toward her, one hand cupped protectively around his cross. “And yet never have their babies survived. Now the gift of a child at last—but instead this poor couple must endure the birth of a monster. I suspected as much. You have cursed this family.”

  Maria scrambled away, skirting around the two men. The priest reached for her arm, but she slipped past him and made for the door. Señor Guerrer leapt forward, stuck out a foot and tripped her. Maria fell face-first onto the beaten earth floor.

  Elena’s heart pounded in terror. How could these men treat her beloved Maria so viciously? She took a wobbly step forward. The priest put a foot on Maria’s back, pressing her to the ground.

  “Your days of freedom are over, witch.” He held his cross aloft.

  Elena froze, her eyes on the cross.

  “You have slithered through these mountains spreading evil for far too long.”

  Maria ignored the priest. Lifting her head from the ground, she looked frantically for Elena. There was an expression on her face that Elena had never seen before.

  “Run, girl,” she cried.

  The words hurtled through the air and thudded against Elena’s ears. She would not do it. She would not abandon her beloved mother to these hateful men. Resolutely she took one more step forward.

  “Run!” Maria said again, in the ominous, flat tone that was reserved for moments of danger. She had trained Elena early on to obey that voice without question. And now, like a puppet on a string, Elena did as she was ordered.

  She wheeled around and fled into the night.

  * * *

  Thérèse cried out, wracked by a labor pain.
Elena returned to her friend’s side, angry with herself. Why had she dredged up the sorrows of the past again? Her nightmares would return. Dark worries would reclaim space in her mind, chipping away at the hope she had reclaimed during her winter with Xabi.

  She bent over Thérèse, whispering encouraging words. It was time. The baby was ready to emerge. Elena helped Thérèse onto her side.

  “Grip my hand and push now,” she said.

  Thérèse bore down with all her strength, unleashing a mighty groan. The baby’s head began to crown.

  “If it’s a boy,” Thérèse said hoarsely, her bloodshot eyes on Elena, “We’ll call him Arnaud.”

  “And if it’s a girl?”

  “She’ll be Elena, after you.”

  17

  Autumn, 1484

  After a fortnight of tending to Thérèse and her new son, Elena left Ronzal on a cool, drizzly morning, headed to a cave that lay a day’s journey to the east. These limestone mountains were porous, full of gaps and holes and secret spaces. People had long used caves as refuges from the gods, from the beasts of the wilderness, from the swords and arrows of enemies. And Elena held a map in her head that showed the location of each one.

  As her journey through the mountains progressed, the air grew crisper each day, the beech leaves in the forest turning from green to gold. Thérèse and Jorge had gifted her a new cloak of hand-spun merino wool before she left, dyed black with boiled walnut shells, and she was grateful for its warmth and softness.

  On the third morning, she left her limestone refuge in a light rain. Dark clouds pressed down upon the ridgetops and she wrapped her cloak tightly around her to ward off the chill of dawn.

  Before long she reached the grove of black pines where Maria had taught her to harvest death caps. She found the ancient tree in their midst, the one that bled pitch and bore the marks of passing bears, its trunk riddled with holes drilled by woodpeckers. Pulling her dagger from its sheath, she quickly harvested the largest death cap she could find. Upon a moment’s reflection, she collected one more.